Ernest Hogan’s debut novel, published in 1990 as part of Ben Bova’s Discoveries series, is a remarkable piece of original SF that is radical in ways that perhaps haven’t really been acknowledged yet.

Cortez On Jupiter is the story of graffiti artist Pablo Cortez’ career progression from Basquiat-esque guerrilla muralist in 2020s LA via a staggered Bester-like plot to a weightless take on Jackson Pollock on in orbit above the Great Red Spot. Meanwhile a series of attempts to communicate with the alien Sirens of the Jovian atmosphere repeatedly have fatal consequences. Fascinated, Pablo volunteers.

Initially framed as a documentary on Pablo’s career, told in flashback and transcripts, Cortez on Jupiter steers a course that manages to include explicit satire and old-fashioned sensawunda SF tinged with cyberpunk simultaneously.

The Science Fiction Encyclopaedia talks about Hogan’s ‘pleasing gonzo energy’ which most obviously manifests in Pablo’s rapid-fire Spanglish-with-Nahuatl dialogues. Long, free-flowing sentences leap around worldbuilding impressionistically rather than through any attempted simulation of mimesis. Pablo drops Aztec deities into his rambling seemingly allocating new mythic status to everything.

Paint stick in hand like an Aztec priest wielding a flint knife, or that cop swinging his baton on that cool starless night years ago in L.A. that crushed the buckle from my gas mask into my skull, leaving a cute little scarito in my scalp that I wore my hair extra short for months to show off. Or like in that time before time when space wasn’t separate from time or anything was separate from anything else and all was the goddess Coatlicue, She of the Serpent Skirt, but then she was the Cipactli monster: alligatoroid, fished, but more a great, quivering mass swimming in an endless sea that was also a sky, a mass with mucho, mucho hungry mouths that devoured everything, the monster, the sea, the monster, the sea, so the sea was the monster and vice versa — everything all mixed up like Siren zapware feedback — ay! Makes me want to be like the gods Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca — I wonder which I am, culture giver or trickster? Could I be both? Why not? I know how they felt when they decided, Hey, enough of this formless nadaness! Let’s tear this monster/paint blob apart! (p2-3)

It becomes clear later that Pablo is, as he suspected, both culture giver and trickster. In particular the loner Pablo continually voices the trickster’s absence of respect for society, whether in small groups, through the justice systems, or in the Space Culture Project. In the latter Pablo rails against the Director as “An icon-maker rather than an iconoclast. No wonder we didn’t get along.” (p83)

One of SF’s favourite toys is the neologism, from raygun to cyberspace SF has modified language to tell its story but I struggle to think of any writer who has made language so distinctly his own the way Hogan does. (He even creates the wonderful “nuevofangled cyberpsychoautonomoelectromagneticneuroextrasensorywhatchamacallit.” p210) The Spanglish vocabulary not only gives Pablo cultural depth but contributes in classic trickster fashion to subverting the otherwise standard First Contact story. In his hands the toy is a weapon, reflected by the Picasso quote Pablo has tattooed: “Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war for attack and defense against the enemy.” (p25)

Writing in SFEye Hogan said of himself:

Growing up as a Chicano, I often found it easier to identify with aliens, mutants and other sci-fi thingies than with the white people who were supposed to be destined to conquer the galaxy.(Greasy Kid Stuff From Outer Space, SFEye 11, December 1992)

That outsider feeling has translated in Pablo into the man who can communicate with the Sirens when they have mentally destroyed others because of the artistic perspective and because of that identification more with the alien than society. In Cortez on Jupiter Ernest Hogan challenges the Heinleinian vision of space conquest, the prevalent Manifest Destiny of Space Exploration that lingers on. The ‘heroic’ first man to lose his mind to the Sirens is Phil Hagen.

a typical nondescript astronaut — not even the fact that he was black and raised in Brazil made him much different from the sterilized whitebread spacemen of the mid-twentieth century. He was all hard-edge haircut and close shave all the way down to the convolutions of his brain. (p27)

That sounds like Starship Troopers‘ John Rico to me, and the last line of that paragraph reads: “I can’t even recall anything he ever said that interested me.”

Cortez On Jupiter takes a conventional mainstream SF idea or two as its plot, hence the SFE suggestion that Hogan isn’t doing anything radically original, but in warping language as Pablo does “I really don’t care what language they’re from — I just use ‘em when they fit.” (p9) Ernest Hogan satirizes swathes of SF that went before.

Historically, Hernan Cortez defeated the Aztecs in part through his relationship with a woman who interpreted for him. Pablo is a very different Cortez, but his return from the Sirens is facilitated by fellow artist Willa translating his thoughts. Multi-faceted synaesthetic communications assimilate Pablo and the Sirens where the establishment protocols all failed. Hogan convincingly offers SF a new, post-Anglo paradigm. Pablo’s linguistic exuberance and artistic questing highlight and challenge the media obsessions and the cultural establishments of today both real and as more commonly portrayed in SF.

Cortez on Jupiter is a frequently very funny novel but one with a serious heart. His story may be closest to Alfred Bester, but his freewheeling hi-NRG word mashups and sharp wide-ranging satire owe as much to Ishmael Reed. Twenty years on I still know no writer in SF consistently doing what Hogan does with language to document, shape and comment on colliding cultures.

At one point during Autumn Angels, the lawyer, one of the novel's three main characters, says, "In a world where anything can happen, rest assured, it will." This, coupled with his "But what's the use in being alive if you can't mingle with people no good for you?" fundamentally sums up in a metaphorical nutshell this fantastic and unfortunately nearly forgotten work of satirical fantasy.

One of my favorite novels, Arthur Byron Cover's Autumn Angels is one of the wildest and weirdest books to be printed. One critic has referred to Cover as a "rock 'n' roll James Joyce," which is very nice, but an almost left-handed compliment. While definitely one of the "great works of Western Civilization," how many people have actually had the fortitude to finish Joyce's Ulysses, yet alone Finnegans Wake? Autumn Angels is a breeze and a hoot to read, and if you don't catch all of Cover's playful references (and there are many), don't worry. They all exist with a specific purpose in the novel itself; it doesn't matter if you don't know that the godlike man with no name is a allusion to Clint Eastwood's character in Sergio Leone's spaghetti westerns, or that the insidious oriental doctor is Fu Manchu, or the talking blood-drinking flowers from the planet of the Ebony Kings are referring to the human-eating plant from The Little Shop of Horrors. There's even a reference to the old commercials of infamous L.A. car dealer Cal Worthington -- talk about obscure!

Of course, catching and recognizing these references is loads of fun, but some characters, like the aforementioned Ebony Kings, are solely creations of author Cover's fevered imagination. So I think it is beside the point to simply reducing this witty and marvelous book to the status of "just a game." Autumn Angels is not some joyless post-modern wankfest where the author is showing off his grad school degree and his ability to construct convoluted sentences that only exist to satisfy his perverse desire to torment an unfortunate audience. Autumn Angels is beautiful weirdness that needs to be read, written in a clean and direct style, that tells the almost-existential story of how three godlike miscreants try and re-introduce depression to the race of godlike men.

The following quote is from Harlan Ellison's almost frenzied introduction to the book's 1975 Pyramid Books paperback edition (the novel was the second in Pyramid's "Harlan Ellison Discover Series"). The fab Mr. Ellison wrote this about 26 years ago, but it still directly pinpoints the novel's positives: "It is a great many things, most of them silly and funny and memorable…"

It takes the materials of everyday entertainments-pulp heroes, movies, comics, detective stories-and transforms them. It melds them into a gestalt that is fresh and different and entirely meaningful… I take Autumn Angels and its brilliant young author very seriously… And despite the seeming silliness of the story, it is a profound and singular examination of some of the basic questions that confound us today: the meaning of our existence, the value of pain, the rationale for the search of individual destiny. And Autumn Angels speaks directly to the value of role-playing in our society; it says something lucid and fresh about the value of persona, the need to be other than what we seem, the need to seem to be other than what we are.

Nominated for a Nebula upon its initial release ("When I told my father it had been nominated for the best SF novel of the year, he said he'd have to read it again -- he was more a Louis Lamour fan," says Cover), the book takes place eons in the future, at some point long after the bems (who are eventually brought back to earth and the story) have granted godlike powers to the race of "mere man." People no longer identify themselves by name but by character (or persona or archetype, if you will): our three misfit protagonists are the lawyer, the demon and the fat man (who is, according to Ellison, modeled after Sydney Greenstreet's character in The Maltese Falcon).

The demon and the lawyer (who is the book's most fallible and "human" character, and a great audience surrogate) are fed up with the stagnation of the race of godlike man ("the routine of life was rarely broken," writes Cover), and are trying to convince the great mover-and-shaker, the fat man, to help them on their quest:

"Without depression, [asks the demon] what good is happiness? These days happiness is no longer a goal, but merely another state of being. As for myself, I find no joy in seeing other people happy. The race of godlike man has become lazy. The only ambition is for fame and glory. There is no striving for unobtainable goals. There are no adventures. And may I remind you that our very identities come from our past? Why shouldn't they come from our own culture, our own present? And what is our future?"The fat man rubbed one of his chins. "I do not care for your goals. I, for one, am completely satisfied with things as they are."

"And for eons," said the lawyer, "you have been concerned with petty intrigues. Why, a man with your skills in the old days would have fought and schemed for a planet, for a solar system, for more! Your skills are wasted on this dreamless planet. With the return of depression will come the return of dreams, of hopes for better times. All godlike men will be searching for something, and then your skills will not be wasted. You will be at the top of a young and worthwhile race."

The fat man is convinced ("I like the way you two come right to the point," he chortles to his co-conspirators), and becomes the trio's de facto leader. However, even with his great powers (and the assistance of the shadowy gunsel, the fat man's henchman; based on Elisha Cook Jr.'s character in The Maltese Falcon -- remember him?), this crazy troika fails miserably, with an angered godlike mankind stripping them of their collective fame and glory.

Shamed and shunned, the friends eventually realize that this state of disgrace actually can be a boon: being out of the public's eye, now they can really do whatever it takes to bring back depression! Cover writes, "These three possessed a confidence alien to all other godlike men… despite their godlike powers, they resembled mere man in that they would let nothing stop them, even if it meant their doom."

Along the way, among a multiplicity of other oddities, we are treated to a day in the life of the duck (versus the cigar-smoking frogs), a wonderful and exciting basketball game between the lawyer and the fat man before the fuzzy ("yet boring," describes Cover) little balls of Sharkosh, the painful odyssey of the sad crawling bird, and a death duel between the godlike man with no name and the lonely hawkman where the loser ends up in the anti-matter universe. Despite its length (the Pyramid paperback is only 190 pages), Autumn Angels is a fantastically dense book.

Meanwhile, Cover is wonderful at supplying hints and traces of the growing friendship between his three godlike outcasts, especially with the in-jokes and playful teases of one to another. The demon and the fat man become roommates, and delight in teasing the lawyer about his obsession with pigs and his unrequited love for his never-seen girlfriend "Kitty" (which might be a sly jab at most males' pursuit of "pussy"). Soon the reader feels honored to be included in the shenanigans and strange logic of this insular trio, as if you were watching a good Marx Brothers' film.

He plunges us into a unique and original world, and has the faith that we'll keep up. Like one of the better magicians, the author works hard to give the audience the feeling that they're in on the gag, while using delightful sleight-of-hand to keep surprising them. Cover's dialog is witty and sharp, his descriptions are clear and imaginative, and his plotting is masterful. A fantasy for adults (rather than yet another adolescent power trip wish fulfillment testosterone fest), Autumn Angels evokes the smart playfulness of a Rudy Rucker, a Philip Jose Farmer or a Kurt Vonnegut. Fans of the work of comic book author Alan Moore (especially his Watchmen, Top Ten or The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen series) should really express an interest in Cover's work.

If I might appropriate Terry Southern's statement about Tom Wolfe, Arthur Byron Cover needs to be showered with money and other fine things. Attracted by the Pyramid paperback's beautiful Ron Cobb cover, I discovered this book back in the late-1970s in a used bookstore in the basically illiterate section of Brooklyn where I grew up. Since then, I've read Autumn Angels at least five times. I love this book so much that every time I'm in a used bookstore, if I find a copy of it, I buy it. I've found copies in used bookstores in Aspen, Colorado, Chicago and London, England. I'm not sure why I do this (either I'm trying to preserve copies for future generations or else this is one of the few times I'm willing to be transformed into pure collector scum), but I guard my copies jealously, only giving (as opposed to lending) one copy away so far.

The novel initially "began as a short story for an original anthology series that was cancelled," Cover told me recently, "but by then I was wondering what should happen next. I really had no idea how to write a short story, much less a novel, so I was faking it."

Cover states that the novel got published through "Nepotism. Harlan Ellison had made a deal with his publisher to edit a series of books. I was bothering him a lot in those days and he told me he would look at something. When he did, he figured it was okay and he would edit it. The second time he read it, with an eye toward what editorial work it needed, he thought it was the worst piece of dreck he'd ever suffered through… The charitable way of putting it is that he was unwilling to suspend his disbelief for it. Fortunately for us both, the third time around something clicked and his opinion became somewhat more favorable, which is sort of a quiet thing to call any feeling Harlan might have." (See Ellison's quote above.)

Unfortunately, critical and financial response to the novel was poor. "Except for a few who really didn't like it, it was pretty much ignored by what passed then for a literary science fiction establishment," says Cover. "The arts are a profoundly Darwinistic enterprise. When you look at what my then-contemporaries were writing, particularly those who have gone on to lucrative careers in writing commercial SF, you should thank Harlan for giving the work the benefit of the doubt when he doubted it the most."
Although a fabulous fantasist, Cover is quite earthbound when it come to the realities of the contemporary publishing industry. "I run a bookstore [Dangerous Visions in Southern California; www.readsf.com]. [Ordinary] SF books are a common product. Every literary trend that has ever existed now exists in the cultural matrix in some form or another, and even co-exists with artistic sensibilities once thought to be mutually exclusive. The trends of the past will be the trends of the future, but while the field [remains] dominated by middle-class writers and a middle-class audience (insiders as opposed to those who once believed themselves outsiders, whether or not they actually were), the era of dependable literary conceptual breakthroughs is history. You never know though. For years I've been saying the bottom will drop out of the Stephen King collectible market. Ten or twelve more decades, and I might be right."

The fantastic travelogue has been a literary staple since the Iliad at least, and as a means of turning a satirical mirror on society’s failings one of the most frequently adopted. Think of Gulliver’s Travels for instance, and all its subsequent copies. Feminist SF has used this model to explore lands from Herland to Whileaway most effectively.

In Passing For Human Jody Scott takes a slightly different tack by telling her story from the distorted viewpoint of a Rysemian alien, Benaroya, on an anthropological research visit to Earth in the 1970s. Benaroya is, however, apparently amoral, pleasure focussed and careless. She doesn’t seem to like the ‘Earthies’ as from the start she is condescending, sneering and labels humans primitive ‘bushmen’ on a ‘savage backwater.’

To visit Earth Benaroya has had to transfer from her giant dolphin-like Rysemian form into one of a choice of human simulacra. When we first meet her she is a faithful copy of Brenda Starr the intrepid girl reporter of comic strip fame. Later she will be Emma Peel and most significantly Virginia Woolf. Her fellow Rysemians will include Abraham Lincoln, Heidi’s Grandfather and General George S Patton. Support drones are modelled on Richard Nixon. Whilst on Earth Benaroya really just wants to have fun, experimenting with the limits of the Brenda Starr form initially, in a road race that leaves several humans dead and a half-naked Starr in custody, where her lawyer is unable to resist sex with her.

On her return to her shipworld Vonderra, Benaroya is informed of a threat. Another alien, the Sajorian Scaulzo is about to invade Earth and Benaroya must prevent this. The Sajorians, we are told, are the only truly psychopathic race to have achieved interstellar travel. They are reminiscent of Klingons in that respect, but are explicitly compared to humanity. Scaulzo himself is referred to by Benaroya as The Prince Of Darkness early on, and later, when captured as Woolf she muses on whether it is wrong to ‘fall in love with the Prince Of Darkness.’

Passing For Human has a plot, the prevention of Earth’s destruction, and Benaroya’s learning about humans and herself, but plot is not really this novel’s focus. Events happen apace, with absurd leaps, and devices such as the assorted ‘identities’ Benaroya adopts are not really explored in any typical SF manner. As a whole, despite its aliens, spaceships, super weapons and so on, Passing For Human doesn’t look like a lot of SF these days, being unconcerned with plausibility, plot cohesion or real characterisation. The novel leaps along with an energy and a disregard for convention that reminds me a little of genre outsiders like Barry Malzberg and possibly Josephine Saxton in that this reads like a romp through the Collective Unconscious. A closer comparison might be with the early novels of Ishmael Reed who shares with Scott a vitriolic contempt for seemingly all and everything, sniping and satirising hilariously along the way.

Yet the California scenery was ever so pretty. There, just ahead, was some sort of fabulous monument. What could it represent? Aha: a giant taco 80 feet tall, oozing lettuce, bits of cheese and tomato and a thick purple goo, possibly plum jam. She’d seen ever so many pictures in magazines. But the monument was made of plastic! Oh, how inventive. And the sweet, little bushmen were lining up to get small, hot duplicates of the hot food product.

Benaroya felt a pang of excstasy, this trip was going to be thrilling.

Even amidst action scenes Scott doesn’t let up on her targets:

‘Emma Peel admired Boolabung hugely. Her Captain was a real man, macho as all get-out, never whimpering or complaining.’

As Emma Peel she is later picked up hitch-hiking by a gangster who asks why she is out on the road:

‘I’m an anthropologist. On vacation.’

‘Study Indians and that kind of thing?’

She tittered. ‘You might say I try to relate in a meaningful, concerned way to autochthonous bipeds in general.’

‘A little girl like you with a big job like that,’ he marvelled. Benaroya pondered this slippery remark and concluded it was the ordinary Earthie belittler camoflaged as a compliment.

The rapid non-sequiturs Scott puts into Benaroya’s mouth and her aside justifications combine sharp jabbing observations and great humour. Those who seek to deride feminist SF often suggest that it is too serious, po-faced, but Jody Scott’s wild imagination, seemingly scattershot but tightly controlled, makes Passing For Human an absurdly comic romp of unexpected juxtapositions and witty asides.

Being satire this 1977 novel does show its age perhaps more readily than some of its contemporaries in places, but as so little has changed in many respects its jibes at patronising men, the worship of commercialism and other areas still contain truths. Along with its loose sequel I, Vampire Jody Scott has left SF with two provocative, compassionate, and thoughtful short novels. Her style will certainly not be to everyone’s liking, as I said, these aren’t traditional SF at all, but they are good examples of what SF can do when it steps out of its comfort zone, and of how women’s SF can challenge the genre assumptions by challenging its tropes and its language. Take a look, see what you think.

When I came into active fandom in the 1970s—my first con was Westercon 28 in 1975—it was impossible to miss William Rotsler, at least in West-Coast fandom; seems he was everywhere and had done everything. If you subscribed to any fanzines you’d likely have seen a bunch of Rotslers (that’s how they were referred to); he drew (cartoons) compulsively—not only quickly, but accurately—every cartoon (often using stock characters he’d made up years ago) was not only funny but right. He must have drawn (and given away) a couple of hundred thousand of them; he carried a manila folder with him, often, and if you asked him for a fillo (filler illustration) he’d pull out a few and just give them to you. (I have a small sheet of Rotslers in a drawer somewhere.) He won the best fanartist Hugo five times, yet his serious SF drawings were (in my opinion, at least) even better.

He was, as is mentioned in the foreword for Patron of the Arts, a sculptor, filmmaker, writer and artist, yet most fans never saw much of his film work; a lot of it was in the erotic categories. He was gracious; when Zandra was published, I wrote to him about a somewhat minor scientific error I noticed (I did the same thing to Arthur C. Clarke with Imperial Earth—I was a lot brasher when I was in my twenties) and he wrote back and not only acknowledged his error, but thanked me for it. (If you would like to own some original Rotsler art, James Van Hise is selling quite a few b/w pieces on eBay for about $32 each.) Of himself, he said, in part, “I’ve written in the Star Trek, Marvel, and Tarzan universes. I’ve written comics and animated shows. I’ve published novels, poems, epigrams, photographs, drawings, and fanzines. I’ve made over 6,000 pieces of sculpture and hundreds of thousands of drawings. I’ve been a fast gun and a slow burn. I’ve been shot at, laughed at, and laughed with. I’ve had a Corvette, a lot of laughs, and been house hunting with Marilyn Monroe.” (From both the foreword to Patron of the Arts and eFanzines.)

His books are now being re-released as ebooks by Strange Particle Press, an imprint of Digital Parchment Services. If you visit http://www.williamcharlesrotsler.com/you’ll find much more information about Bill Rotsler. His first book, Patron of the Arts, was nominated for both the Hugo and Nebula awards. I wish I had known him better.

It is the near future—Earth’s population is over 8 billion; we have bases in space, on the Moon, settlers on Mars, and Brian Thorne, one of the hundred richest men on Earth wants a sensatron cube made of his lover, Madelon Morgana, by Mike Cilento, possibly the greatest sensatron artist. Years later, after Mike has made the one-of-a-kind, larger-than-life cube for Brian, he and Madelon disappear, leaving only a breathing, but unliving, facsimile of the most beautiful woman Brian had ever seen. Brian continues to subsidize the arts and to make money hand over fist—he has the “Midas touch” when it comes to business—and to cover his emotional loss by submerging himself in a tide of beautiful, sensate, throbbing flesh. Then, on a trip to Mars, hiding his identity by using the persona of Diego Braddock, he meets Nova Sunstrum and becomes embroiled in a fight for his life in the ancient Martian ruins that may hold the key to immortality—or to the stars! An adventure that examines the role the arts may play in the lives of some men, or in the whole human race; this book brought Bill Rotsler to the attention of the SF-reading public, and deservedly so. He describes a vivid future and a Mars that (alas!) we now think must take its place alongside the dreams of such visionaries as Ray Bradbury, Leigh Brackett and Robert A. Heinlein. I might even call this one a classic. Recommended!

Figure 3 – Patron of the Arts cover

Patron of the Artsreview, continued: Not content to just be an adventure, or an examination of the future—complete with enough SF-y ideas to fill a dozen other books, from “shimmercloth” to quiver music to giant arcologies—Bill Rotsler had to take the time to examine what he (in the persona of his protagonist, Brian Thorne/Diego Braddock) thought perhaps was the role of art in not only contemporary life, but in Man’s whole existence:

As an artist himself, I think perhaps that last sentence might sum up Rotsler’s whole creative persona. When I think of the times I saw him, I have two “typical” mental visions: one is Bill laughing, surrounded by a group of laughing people, and the second is Bill, sitting at a table either in the bar or in the Art Show at a con, with a pen and a piece of paper, intent on the drawings that flowed from his pen. And I think perhaps that is the truer vision—remembrance, if you will—of William C. Rotsler.

Who says “space opera” is no longer relevant? Who says that all SF/F books have to be deep, with more layers than an onion; with a psychological/socialogical/ecological point to make? Sometimes a book can be an adventure and something with socio-ecological points to make, y’know! The Far Frontier is such a book. It starts out with a bang (figurative), as Wolf (Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart) Briggs, on a planet named Zikkala, way out at the end of the Orion spur of the Perseus arm, umpteen light-years from Gauguin III, his home planet of Matisse, is pinned down in some boulders by the native Kaleen, who have already killed his horse. Wolf is down to the last five charges in his laser. Wolf, however, is not the protagonist of this book; Rader is. We follow Rader and his companions, the burly Korda and his female companion Liana Chang as they seek to fight Lockhart and the star-spanning corporation Startrade, who wish to take over the planet and eliminate its unruly native population. (In some ways, this is a reminiscent of Hayao Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke or James Cameron’s Avatar in its treatment of natives, though it precedes both by 20 years or more.) Rotsler’s descriptive powers are at their height in describing the people and settings of this book; if you’re looking for a fast and fun read with more than a hint of depth, this just might do it for you! Recommended!

Figure 4 – Far Frontier ebook cover

The Far Frontier Review, Continued: There are two ways to write an SF/F adventure novel that’s set in the far future, where hardened “space cowboys” ride the space equivalent of horses, trading laser shots with “space Indians” (excuse the expression; but I’m trying to make a point here). This kind of book is usually referred to as “space opera,” a take-off on the old “horse opera,” or “oater” (because one feeds oats to a horse, y’see), that used to be one of the mainstays of paperback/pulp fiction. Back in the days when a paperback cost a quarter or so, and no attempt was made to get any deeper than the usual formula of a cowboy/spaceman comes to town/planet and encounters a rancher/settler with a beautiful daughter, and had to fight off rustlers/Indians (sic)/outlaws/aliens with guns/lasers a-blazing. Oh, there were variations—sometimes the cowboy/spaceman was fleeing from a wrongful accusation of doing something wrong back in his hometown/planet or sometimes he was the Marshal/Sky Marshal trying to capture a gang of outlaws/zwilniks, but you get the idea… it was all formula and, with few exceptions, was written quickly and cheaply. Readers ate it up; it was all “mental popcorn,” intended to be a fun and quick read. (Back when both oaters and space operas were common, TV was filled with the same kinds of stuff, but you couldn’t carry a TV on the bus to your job/school/whatever; a paperback was small and would fit into a pocket and while you were reading these quickies, your imagination was free to roam the plains or the universe, whatever you desired. Later, there were Harlequins for the romantically-inclined.) Why, when I was about 12, I read 14 Ace doubles—both sides, 28 “novels”—in one night. I think they averaged something like 160 pages each.

The Far Frontier fits comfortably in this mold; however, it reminds me not so much of the aforementioned ecology-themed adventure movies, but more of one of Louis L’Amour’s Western novels. These were “oaters” with a difference; L’Amour boasted that everything he wrote about in the West was as accurate as he could make it; if he wrote about a stream, it was there where he said it was. His figures were always a bit larger than life—like this book’s protagonist, Rader—and his descriptions, while not as florid as, say,Zane Grey’s (some of his descriptions of the Old West were as purple as the sage blossoms he described) were, nonetheless, complete enough that you could visualize the people, the land and the accouterments thereof, even if you had no idea what a soogan was! (The soogan often mentioned in L’Amour’s books was a kind of sleeping bag that the cowboys kept rolled up in a slicker—to protect it from the rain—behind their saddles so they could sleep warm out on the trail. Just thought you’d like to know.) Like Bill Rotsler was, I’m a L’Amour fan myself. But I digress. You’ll find this book on Amazon as well as through the home page mentioned above.

Rader’s involvement with Lockhart and the Startrade Corporation takes into account the enormous distances between stars and the effects of time dilation; Rotsler has thought out how a company can profitably expand across star systems given those things; and like Miyazaki, Cameron and yes, Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey, has enormous sympathy for the places and native peoples he writes about. I had originally read many of Rotsler’s books back in The Day, and it is a pleasure to be able to reread and to comment upon—and perhaps bring new readers to enjoy this talented writer (and artist) who left us way too soon.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Science fiction readers were divided over the cover for the first ebook edition of this legendary multiple award nominee book which featured author William Rotsler's face surrounded by images of key elements of the book's plot. Those who knew personally this beloved science fiction writer and official Star Trek TOS crew biographer, cartoonist, and motion picture director loved the cover. Those who did not, were confused and thought the book might be his biography. To avoid confusion, we invited well-known cover artist Laura Givens, and book designer Frankie Hill, to create a cover that unmistakeably says "science fiction" for the ebook edition, as the author's admirers preferred to purchase the paperback.

What do you think?

Patron of the Arts is the story of a man who searches the solar system for the woman he knew he loved only after her mysterious disappearance. "A fine novel." -Harlen Ellison "Rotsler at the top of his form." -Gregory Benford

Born in 1926, WILLIAM ROTSLER was a long-time and much-beloved, science fiction fan who began writing science fiction in 1970. Before that he was a sculptor, whose work decorated the plaza at the Los Angeles Police Department, a pioneer of adult filmmaking in

the 1960s, a journalist, and a five-time award-winning cartoonist. He achieved fame with his novelette, "Patron of the Arts," a Hugo and Nebula Award finalist, set in a compelling future which he laterexplored in greater depth in the novel version, Patron of the Arts. He is also the author of To the Land of the Electric Angel, the Zandra series, The Far Frontier, and a number of licensed Star Trek tie-ins, including a book of biographies of the original crew and several books of short stories about them. With his friend Gregory Benford he was the co-author of Shiva Descending. His services for the Science Fiction Writers of America included locating the fossils, crystals and stones for the Nebula Award trophies. He died in southern California in 1997. "Star Level" is that rarity a warmly human story of people with extraordinary power in a cosmic war to determine the fate of homo sapiens.It first appeared, to reader acclaim, in the March 1972 Amazing Stories.

Star Trek fans may find something uncannily familiar in the diction of the mostly unseen, but heard, alien character.

STAR LEVEL

REED CARRAHER LOOKED into the great yawning mouth of the two millimeter Colt laser and had a silly thought: Why wasn't his life flashing before his eyes?

He looked up at the dark visor covering the face of the Patrolman and said, "Yes?" He turned his head deliberately and looked at the second blackclad Patrolman standing by the door. "May I help you in some way?"

"Are you confusing me with someone you want?" he asked, with just the right amount of concern in his voice.

"Put your hands on top of your head!" the Patrolman growled.

Stay calm.

"Of course, officer. But I don't see what this has to do w—"

"Quiet!"

Reed Carraher was very still. He let his face be mildly confused, with an expression that said, 'They'll get this straightened out soon. They're only doing their duty. Be a good citizen and cooperate."

"Whattya think, Bart?" the Patrolman with the drawn gun asked.

"Looks close enough, I guess. Let's take him in. He's the closest yet and we can have the night out in Ares."

"Get up!" A rough gesture with the hand in a metalmesh glove.

"But—"

"Shut your flapping hatch!" A flick of the laser barrel indicated the direction he wanted Carraher to go.

"Cuffs?" the other Patrolman asked.

The one with the gun snorted. "Him? Hah!"

Outside a sleek dark Patrol flyer waited. Carraher climbed into the back and the laser never left him. The flyer lifted, slid angularly towards the air­lock at the top of the dome, where it hovered while the great gates slid back. Then they were leaping out into the dark Martian sky.

The dome cluster of Bradbury fell away and they were streaking away over the strip mines towards Ares Center a thousand kilometers away. Carraher knew they were going there because there was nothing in between.

You have less than two hours. I have calculated speed and direction. Observe and be ready to react.

"Listen, what's this all about, of­ficers? Where are you taking me? I have a dinner appointment with the General Manager of Icemountain. I'll have to be back for that, you know."

The two blackclad men in front did not answer.

"What's it all about? I haven't done anything. It can't be for that traffic control ticket I got at Northaxe last month. I know I've been meaning to send them a credit memo, but ... well, I mean, two Patrolmen for that ... well, it's silly."

"It's not a traffic violation, citizen, as you well know," the pilot said in disgust.

"What is it then?" Carraher asked. "Come on, you can tell me, can't you?" Put some whine in it.

"Can't you?"

The other Patrolman shrugged his shoulders and turned his head to look through his dark shiny visor at the prisoner. "They want you at headquarters. A guy named Compton got carved by a laser." Carraher felt him­selfbeing scrutinized. "You fit the description close enough." He snorted. "They said you were dangerous. Those desk pilots probably think their grandmothers are dangerous. They've been stranded here so long they've forgotten how to handle citizens." He snorted again and turned contemptuously towards the front.

Point Four is directly south three hundred kilometers. Exterior temperature is twenty-one degrees. Altitude two thousand There's another aircar two kilometers to the Northwest, headed for Grandcanal.

Carraher concentrated on the back of the head of the Second Patrolman. He felt the tenseness in his muscles that was not so much a tenseness as an awareness.

He funneled. He channeled. He pushed the energy out of him.

The Patrolman nodded his head, caught himself, shook his head, then dropped his chin to his chest.

"Hey, Bart, don't slag off now. Keep an eye on that mudballer, will you? Hey! Dammit, if you're going to sleep the rest of the way slap some cuffs on that guy, will you?"

Carraher's gaze went to the head of the pilot. The Patrolman shook his head, grumbling and swearing. The flyer swerved and dropped, but the black-clad pilot caught it and brought it up again.

"Goddammit, Bart—"

His head dropped to one side and the flyer slanted off to the South. Carraher jumped forward and seized the controls, righting the ship over the limp form of the Patrolman.

Carraher swore as he tried to steer the ship with the unconscious body in the way. He stabbed in the stable flight button then tugged and yanked for several minutes before he could get the heavy body over the seat and dumped on the floor in back.

'What good is it?' he thought. 'They'll be after me all the harder now.'

They were inefficient. They did not report your capture. They were overconfident. But your disposal of them was adequate. Unless you desire to kill them, they will awaken with no memory of where or when you escaped.

'I'll keep roughly on this course for another hundred kilometers, angling towards Point Four. Then I'll land, reset the flyer and let them wake up somewhere up near Ares,' he thought, 'unless you have some alternative.'

Negative. Once you found yourself in this situation it was the best course to follow.

"You're implying I botched the whole thing, aren't you?" Carraher said aloud. 'You know I had no choice but to cut Compton and run,' he thought angrily.

There were choices. You did not re­serve sufficient time to analyze. You gave them a look at you, enough of an identification to pick up all likely suspects.

'Well, why didn't you warn me? That's your job!'

My tasks are well known to me. I was working on a primary function, that of emptying Compton's mind You had administered the drug, all you had to do was guardian duty.

"How can I concentrate with you using my mind like that? Don't you know what it's like?" Carraher shook his head in irritation. 'It's like the docks at Sahara Central,' he thought viciously. 'Information going through like torn up newspapers in a hurricane. Chunks. Gas. Lightning. And all the time it's like you're screaming in my ear, forcing it out of him, gouging, prying, cutting.' "And I'm supposed to keep watch! Hah!"

You've done it before. Winecup, on Ganymede. Wilson. Haldeman in that crash on Gilgamesh. Krupp in New York. Coulson in Calcutta. Vados in Sardinia. Craig on Little Zeus. All over the moons of Jupiter, from Amalthea out to Vishnu and Thor. Here. Earth. Lindsay on Luna.

'I know, I know,' "I know!" 'But it never happens to you! You don't know what 'it's like, standing in the middle of that river, that flood of thought, of words, of memory—!'

That is true. Perhaps I was hasty in condemning you. When we return to Base I will not counter a request for transfer.

'You son of a bitch.' "You bastard." 'You know what this means to me. You're blackmailing me, you popping mind-sucking frelk! You know it better than anyone in the Universe.'

That is true. Not even the Master spent as much time in your mind as I have. He merely made the preliminary survey. I have lived in it.

'Do you find it comfortable?' Carraher wondered sarcastically.

As well as any I have tried. Would you be comfortable in a spacesuit constructed for a child?

"Thank you, Secret Master of the Universe," Carraher said.

You are being sarcastic. It is a common fault of your kind. Faced with a problem that you find insoluable, you resort to irony, humor, sarcasm, bitterness, apathy, fear and anger. They are primitive reactions and seldom solve anything.

"Were you always pompous or did you study it?"

Logic. Reason. Experience. Synthesis. Evaluation. Action.

'Yes, I know. The path to knowledge. I can't knock it, but its bare bones can be a bore, IOK. You can be a bore, sometimes. IOX was a bore. IOR was something of a bloody bore.'

And IOZ?

Carraher turned to the unconscious Patrolman slumped in the next seat and said, "Do you know the trouble with having someone live in your mind twenty-four hours a day? It's like a house guest that looks in your desk and in your dresser and reads your mail. That's what's wrong with having a xeron in your head. In case you should ask."

You are aware we have no sexual differential. Why do you persist in labeling?

'Because she was a she! She thought like a she, she acted like a she. You are a he. IOX was an it. IOR was a maybe.' "Get it?"

It is at moments like this that I question my decision to become a Warder. Despite the Plan, there are times I sense that xeron and man shall never grow together.

"There are times like this," Carraher said, punching out codes on the telex, "that I question my own goddamn sanity for letting one of you alien basketballs into my dome." 'I really do. You are nothing but trouble.'

Why do you persist in the pretense of anger? It is not logical nor practical.

I know your true feelings. You are proud of your association with us. The instant we sense a significant lessening of interest and dedication we will confer and act.

"Do you make me blow my head off or do I just go quietly insane?"

That is unworthy of you. You are quite aware of the decontamination procedures. Honorable retirement on any of three worlds and nine moons. A life of leisure and happiness. Waiting for you at any time you desire. That was our pledge.

'Unless I get cut down first.' "Or caught. Or snagged by the Patrol's Psych Group and my brain drained."

Your brain will not be drained. We promise you that.

"Yesh," Carraher, said gloomily, "that's what I'm afraid of."

Your continual pessimism did not stop you from accepting our offer.

"So I believed you!" 'Maybe you hypnotized me, I don't know. You convinced me you wanted to help man.'

Intelligence. Man is not the only intelligent being.

'Okay, okay.' "Okay." 'So most of mankind would think I was a traitor and the rest would think I was insane. Helping an alien scoop out all the knowledge in carefully selected humans.'

We need to know certain things. We do not know what we need to know. You and the others help. In the long view you realize we are correct.

"Sometimes I do." 'Sometimes I don't.' "It's weird having someone live in your head like this!" 'It's not natural!'

It is natural to us. We use scores of host races.

"Well ... Like the joke says, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

Humans are a constant source of wonder. Their reactions are so unpredictable at times. There is always a sense of danger about you.

'Are you calling us savages?'

Such judgements are highly subjective. To us you are savages. To the Thula we are savages, though they are too polite to say so. You merely seem dangerous because of your unpredictability. You have come remarkably far in a very short time.

'Thanks, loads.' "I'm going down now."

The flyer sank abruptly and almost immediately Ares Control called, asking why they had dropped off the scopes. Carraher ignored them and swept to a landing on a rocky stretch in a wide, shallow crater. Working as fast as he could he pulled the unconscious pilot back into the seat, so that he might awaken somewhere and discover that their prisoner had simply "vanished." He grabbed an airmask and tanks and moved to the door.

He punched the takeoff button and leaped to the rocky, sandy soil. He did not look up as the flyer jumped skyward. It would sit down four more times, then clear the destination board and simply go west until the pilot woke up.

Carraher started walking and the xeron said in his mind, That way. The lithe young spaceman turned slightly and continued walking, adjusting the airmask more tightly to his face.

The air was thin and cold and the xeron turned up his body heat to compensate, but kept the simulated fever from interfering with other body functions. it cost calories and would need adjusting later, but it would save time and energy.

Carraher was walking for over an hour when the warning sounded in his head.

Flyer at 175° and coming fast.

Carraher trusted the xeron's experienced use of his own sensing devices and jumped for the curve of a crater lip, hiding in the shadow. He watched the yellow dot of a commerical flyer move across the dark blue sky a few kilometers off.

Course computed. Wait until out of sight and then continue.

Carraher watched until the ship disappeared beyond a crater edge, then heaved himself up and started out again.

The sand dragged at his feet and the airmask made his chest hurt. "Do something about the hunger, will you?" he said aloud. The hollow feeling died away and his thrist calmed. Carraher knew the toil it would take on his body to have all the warning signals suppressed, but he had no choice.

When night came he curled up in a ball and hugged himself. 'Put me to sleep for a couple of hours,' he thought at the xeron. The sleep was instantaneous and dreamless. He was almost instantly awake again, but he knew too well the terrible efficiency the xeron had over many of his body functions.

He rose and his eyes seemed to penetrate the darkness better and after three hours tiny Phobos rose to become a pale dot in the black jewel case of the sky. Carraher fought the boredom by having IOK take over the motor and visual functions and to continue walking his body across the night desert while he luxuriated in fantasy.

Give me Earth, he said. Tahiti before the white man. But this time throw in a few white women.

Your capacity for trivial escape mechanisms amazes me. If you wish merely to be distracted from this purely mechanical act of walking I could familiarize you with Acanthocephala or Coelenterata. They are most interesting. I have been learning about these parasitic worms and various jellyfish from IOG, who is with Bergin in the Mozambique Channel.

"IOK, will you for Christ's sake, just never mind!" 'I want quiet and coolness and ease. And maybe a woman. I haven't had a woman since Chris's Place.' "Just give me Tahiti with the changes, huh?"

You are very uninformed in the sciences. You do not have all the atomic weights correct, for instance. I could coach you. I'll cool your interior sense and keep up the exterior warmth while‑

"IOK! "

Very well.

The dark bowl of night grew blacker then lightened and Carraher heard the soft slap-slap of waves. He turned from the blue dome and there were green trees, palms and wide-leaved tropical plants. The waves broke quietly on the wide white beaches, protected from the sea by the reefs. He heard children's laughter and under the trees he saw the huts of a small village.

Beyond the trees the dark red cones of the volcanos rose, impossibly steep, their lower sides skirted heavily in dark green. Near him, playing in the surf were several brown-skinned young women, slim and sleek and naked, their long black hair like bird's wings, stuck to their shoulders and back. Their flesh was speckled with water jewels as they frolicked naked and unashamed beneath a sun that had yet to see a thermonuclear blast.

"Hello, Reed," a soft voice said near him, just barely heard above the sound of waves and laughter. Carraher turned and saw what he expected to see and hoped to see and thought he would never see again, except in the illusions of his mind.

"Hello, Mara."

They looked at each other for a long time and Carraher ran his eyes over the ripe perfection of her body, over the naked, tanned skin, over the full, firm breasts, over the flat, taut stomach, down the long, shapely legs.

Her eyes were the same, no matter what form he made her body. Usually deep violet, but in bright sunlight they could be blue. Last time, "on Earth," she had been slimmer, quicker, more demanding, running in the untouched forest, legs wet with dew, falling laughing in a meadow of flowers, opening her dress, reaching for him ... dancing and flying in the Astrobubble on Station Two, weightless and gay, imaginary wings spreading wide, swooping and kissing, he in his black uniform trimmed with scarlet, she in a shimmering skintight thatchanged colors ... standing on the tip of Redrock with a sandstorm coloring the sunset with glory, not needing airmasks because IOK had given Mars a crisp, clean blanket of air ... a fresh clean world all new and untouched ... twisting and dipping, gods in space, perfect bodies as long as a comet, using the Solar System as a playground, dodging planets and laughing as they felt the flame of the Sun ... naked in the water, in the fish and seaflowers and coral castles, never needing air, making love, playing games, swimming, diving, finding a lost temple of Ishtar in sunken Atlantis ...

... Mara ...

... again ... not lost ... alive ... here ...

Reed Carraher took the warmly smiling girl into his arms to kiss and the nearby maidens giggled in appreciation, their wet shiny breasts jiggling. He swept her up into his arms and started for the shore, knee-deep in the crystal waters. She snuggled into his shoulder as they went up onto the beach, towards the cool shade, towards the bower of flowers, towards the flood of love words, silent and spoken.

It was going to be a very nice walk to Point Four, Carraher thought. They both smiled at the voluptuous brown-skinned beauties and Reed walked across the fine sand of the coral beach and into the trees.

The bower was there, heavy with the incense of nature, and the wide soft bed of deep green moss. They looked at each other with shy smiles on their faces, lovers twice a hundred times yet strangers, virgins on a new planet.

Reed touched her flesh, his fingertips tracing a romance across her golden flesh. Her great blonde cascade of hair spread out over the moss, over the world, a fine net of life and beauty and memory.

He lay next to her and she touched his lips, a fingertip tracery with her smile of love beyond. Her breasts were firm and smooth, with a hardening button in his palm, and her body arched towards him ...

... night ... torches and glistening flesh ... a ring of dancers ... music ... moonlight on a world of water, silver and purple ...

... warm days of sea and sun and sand, of fruit and love and laughter ... seaweed forests and underwater coral sculpture ... waves and fish and flowers.

... a simple, happy people, brown and naked and untouched.

... an innocent world . .

... a new world ...

... and Mara...

We are almost there.

The trees overhead shimmered and blurred. The silken skin, beaded with moisture and warm with love, slowly disappeared. The moss bed darkened. The sky was black, without stars, and then it was dark blue and a Martian day.

Carraher took another step and stopped, crying out with pain. "Hey! What the hell were you doing with my body! My knees are—ouch!—banged raw and my elbow—"

A Patrol craft approached us twice. I did not think it necessary to remove you from your Dream while I hid your body.

"Did you have to be so rough?" Carraher examined his bloody elbow through a rip in his suit. He was aware of weakness and dehydration and a general soreness. His airmask chafed badly and his lips were split and dry.

They came over at high velocity. I had to reduce your body heat below the level of their infrared detectors. I am sorry if I have injured your flesh, but the alternative was not viable.

"Uh ... okay, thanks. I know you did your best." 'Thanks for those days with Mara, though. But I just asked for a variation. Just a few zoftic white women in with the regular natives, just for variety.'

If you would permit me someday to indoctrinate you in the IOC-IOM disciplines you could contact the deeper portions of your mind and achieve a truer whole.

"In other words, you read me that I wanted Mara." 'Is nothing sacred? How much do you peek and don't tell me? Are you going to say you know me better than myself?'

I am a Fourth Level adept, a moka in the IOC-IOM disciplines.

And that's the answer I deserve, I suppose, Carraher thought. "Where are we?"

Point Four is one kilometer straight ahead. They know we are here.

Carraher walked over a low ridge, the worn remnant of an ancient crater, and down into the inconspicuous jumble of rocks and mud cracks and craterlets that was the hidden entrance to Point Four.

That way. Into that crack. Stop. IOR will open the entrance.'

IOR's here? Who is he with? Uh, who is it, er, IOR with?'

Was that humor or indecisiveness?

'Aha! Something you can't understand?' Carraher grinned and then put his fingers to his cracked lips as he felt the blood flow. 'Damn!'

Interpretation of alien thought symbols is not yet perfection, for it differs from individual to individual.

'Maybe I have a place to hide in my own head,' Carraher thought quietly to himself.

Only if we permit it.

"Oh, will you open this goddamn hole?"

The ground yawned-and dilated before him as rocks moved aside and cracks widened. Carraher walked down into the darkness and the rocks swung closed over his head. His eyes dilated quickly and he walked towards a darker rectangle to the left, then down a slanting corridor into darkness.

'Who else is here?' Carraher asked listlessly. The repair work on his body was going to be a bore, even with IOK's help.

IOR ... IOT'moki ... IOZ...

"IOZ?" Gladness and warmth welled up in Carraher. IOZ had been fun, like having a beautiful weekend guest, always considerate and friendly.

You are criticizing me?

'Goddamn it, IOK, will you stop listening to everything I think?'

You prefer IOZ? I find that difficult to comprehend. IOZ is only a Third Level adept. A moka, it is true, but only at the Third Level.

Before Carraher had much time to digest that information a hatch dilated and he stepped through into the bright light of the central room.

"Reed!" Carraher stared at the totally unfamiliar and totally familiar form of a well-built brunette in a gray jumpsuit.

'Mara! No ... not Mara ... you don't even look like Mara ...' "IOZ?"

"Yes!" the girl said, delight in her voice. Ignoring the two others, both men, the girl launched herself across the room at Reed Carraher and they embraced as old friends. She raised a shining, smiling face up to his and they kissed. One of the men sighed wearily and the other made a small, rather strangled sound.

"Hello, Reed," the brunette said. "I'm Mina. Mina Wallace."

"Hello, Mina ... Hello, IOZ."

"Hello, Reed Carraher. It is a gladness that we meet again." The words came from Mina's soft red mouth but Reed immediately sensed the difference.

Are you finished?

"Let them alone, IOK," Mina said.

"Oh, very well," Reed heard himself say, "but let's get on with it."

"IOZ told me IOK was a drudge," Mina said.

"IOZ is no fool. IOK is a raincloud looking for a place to turn himself inside out."

Why do you insult me?

"Let them alone," Mina said, frowning up Reed's forehead.

"Yeah, let us alone," Reed said, tasting the blood on his lips again as he smiled. "I'm greeting an old-new friend."

"Let's get you started healing up," Mina said, smiling. "That hurts, kissing a mouth like that."

"Yes," said the older of the two, a paunchy, moody-looking, dark-haired man in his late forties. "I'm Webster Gianelli. This is Torbert Minden."

Carraher turned towards the other man, a slim, graceful, gray-haired man in his late thirties, who smiled and said, "How do you do? I am with IOT'moki and of course Webster is with IOR."

Reed shook their hands and then let Mina pull him away towards a bright white dispensary where she rubbed salve on his wounds and made him lie down on a soft-topped table under a Healer.

I have begun reconstruction of the damaged tissues. The girl will bring you food. When you have eaten you should sleep. Would you like a Dream?

"You sound as if you are going away."

In a sense. The Healer will require several hours and I must confer with IOT'moki about the Plan. The Fourth Level Conclave is engaging the Third Level Comilla in the k'stals. I have entered myself in the xxxTerm Callidity and must prepare that portion of my being. Within one time period it will be my duty of obligation and I must be certain I have purged all channels so that the energy flow is unimpaired.

"All at once?"

Of course these functions are concurrent. It would be grossly inefficient not to use every portion of your being in as many levels as you are capable of handling at peak levels of service.

"When IOZ was with me she didn't go on like that. She thought of fantastic images for me and delights that were a great deal of fun."

Must I remind you again that IOZ is Third Level and therefore neither capable of nor likely to be of service to her race, her morra nest or even her host.

"But she was fun."

Great Egg. I shall never rise to Fifth Level. You humans will corrupt me and I shall never rise higher. Your devious insanity will stain my thinking and I shall be cast out.

"A dedicated public servant like you? Never? Ah, here's Mina!"

The girl entered with a tray of food and drink, all in fanciful goblets and good plastic copies of Royal Martian china. "Here, my lord, the choice of the larder. Drink! Eat!"

Reed tore his eyes away from the smiling girl, wondering about his sudden strange feeling of warmth upon seeing her. Was it just that she was with IOZ? The two together seemed more fitting than even the closeness they had shared, and Reed was quite pleased. Two friends in one. And such a beautiful friend.

"Been here long?" he asked around a mouthful of analog-chicken.

"Point Four or Mars?"

"Marshxxx ... " He washed it down with a crimson goblet of blue wine.

"On Mars a year, ever since I graduated from college. Just jumped on a ship and still had on my mortar board when I docked. I've been here at Point Four for a month. IOZ and I gulped an engineer around at Welles and had to hide out."

"Why all the way around the planet? Why not go to ground at Touchdown Station or out near Northaxe where that new station is?"

"I dunno, IOZ said here." There was a slight pause and then she continued. "I perceived that if your assignment with Compton required you to go to ground it would be here, and I wanted you two to meet."

I informed her it would be counter productive but she did it nevertheless.

'Are you back?'

IOT'moki is conferring with his nest. The Conclave and the Comitia are changing the rules to fit the Artala. My duty period has yet to begin and I am well on the way to purging my channels.

'So you're still hanging around?'

Until the designers of the Plan reassign me some portion of my being shall always be with you. Always. No matter where you are. Even if you were dead, I would remain in some energy pocket to be certain the body was disposed of to the satisfaction of the Planners.

'Ask a stupid question and you get more answer than you need.'

"You'd better relax," Mina said. "The Healer works better that way." She bent over Carraher as he lay back and her lips were close to his. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"No, do you?"

"No." She kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth. "But I'm always having my beliefs shattered."

Reed smiled at her and this time there was no taste of blood. "There are times I resent being steered around like some kind of bio-car. But this isn't one of them."

"Do you feel like a pawn in the great chess game in the sky?"

"Yes. Mostly I kept wandering over to other squares but today ... today I've been captured by a queen."

"Sleep ... Get well. We have things to do," Mina said.

"Sleep, Reed Carraher, and heal," she said.

"Goodnight, Mina ... 'Night, IOZ ..." 'Take me down, IOK."

Blackness came so fast Reed did not have time to ask for a Dream. But then, he didn't really need one.

AWAKEN

"Huh? Oh." 'Oh, that's better. Everything's fixed, huh?'

Your tissues have been regenerated I have made certain modifications in your facial structure and your voice identification pattern.

"Dammit, you should have consulted me!" 'Hey, I do sound different! What did you do to my face?'

Carraher swung from the table and stepped towards a mirror. He stared at the new face dumbly.

He was different ... but the same. No, more different than same.

There was only so much I could do with the time available. Given a much longer time I could alter your fingerprints and retinal patterns. I sense pleasure in you.

"You did consult me after all. I ..." 'I look like a composite of all the men I have admired.' "I'm taller, I think."

Two centimeters.

"But why?"

A world wide telecast named you, by name, as the assassin of the scientist Compton. They broadcast a telefax of you and holos are being distributed

Carraher sighed, then grinned at his image. "Not bad."

I shall never understand the mysteries of the human ego. What possible difference does a physical exterior make? The essential you remains untouched.

"You've been giving me Dreams, doesn't that give you a hint?"

I have merely been detailing fantasies that already exist in your mind. A First Level adept could do as well. IOZ left codings in your mind for me to use, if I desired

While you slept the Conclave was assembled and it was decided that you human agents should attend.

"Why? Can't you just tell each of us what's happening?" 'It's safe here. I'd like to just hide out awhile and let things blow over.'

There is no time anymore. Events are progressing at a faster rate than anticipated. Our accelerated program of information acquisition has brought us important new information.

"You go." 'I'll stay here with Mina and get acquainted.'

Negative. The Conclave has determined that a Focus might be necessary. There is a need for a physical closeness between xerons and humans. Telepathic power is subject to the square root law just as any other power. With togetherness we can bring our powers to the highest peak.

"Oh, very well. But where do we go? I have no idea where the Nest is."

You will know when the time is appropriate.

'Secretive bastard.' "Okay, when?"

As soon as possible. It will be necessary to abandon Point Four and destroy it when we leave. They will detect our leaving the planet and backtrack us to this site.

"Okay, let's go!" Carraher took one last glance at his own image and left the Healer room grinning.

In the main room he found everyone assembled and saw their expressions as they absorbed his new appearance. Mina did not restrain her admiration.

"Ummm ..." she said, saying a lot.

"Quite attractive," she said again and Reed sensed I0Z speaking.

"Did you really assassinate Compton?" Mina asked.

"Yes and no," Reed answered. "IOK was emptying Compton's mind. You know what that's like. But this was the fastest yet and I ... I was confused and distracted. The security guards surprised us and started shooting. I had to fire back or be killed. Compton got in the way and ... I cut him down with a laser. I felt bad about that. We've always left them alive before."

"I don't like it either," Mina said.

"It is a necessary but regrettable action," said Webster Gianelli, who was with TOR "A portion of the Plan will be revealed to you at the Conclave."

"Only a part?" Reed said.

Torbert Minden spoke, and Carraher realized it was IOT'moki speaking. "There are levels of the Plan. It is not necessary that lower levels know or understand the All."

Carraher grinned. "There are some things man was not meant to know, huh?" 'Name one,' he thought.

It would be advisable to exercise caution.

'Watch my mouth?'

Affirmative. There is no need to agitate friction. We all have work to do.

"Let us leave," Gianelli said.

They went through another airlock and down a long curving passage, then slightly upward to another airlock. In­side was the first xeron spaceship Carraher had seen, a forty-foot egg-like vessel virtually featureless.

We adapted several ships for human use. Humans are larger and require a higher complexity of life support systems. For xeron use this would be a very large ship.

The Martian desert split above them and the ship lifted off effortlessly. Torbert Minden lay on a couch with a glowing red ball suspended near his head. He appeared to be asleep.

Carraher exchanged looks with Mina and they shrugged and went to explore the ship. There were common sleeping quarters which caused Mina to blush slightly.

Another cabin held more casual couches and another floating globe, this one a deep blue, shot with half-glimpsed dots of light, like furry stars.

"Who built this ship?" Reed asked.

It is of Dubrian design and manufacture. The type is Crevlar-mulmato and the classification is Minor Vessel, Star Class.

"You mean we could ... go to the stars in this thing?"

Affirmative. The Dubrians are one of the many races of this galaxy which use space travel. They are honored members of the Galactic Council and supply many races with vessels for exploration.

'You mean the xerons did not have space travel?'

Our explorations have been in other areas. The Dubrians are scientists. They discovered this system while mankind was still in the caves. They established a station for observation around Jupiter.

Your largest planet has many unique properties and they made a long study of it. But something happened and the entire party was lost on the surface of the planet. The station remained unoccupied until it was discovered by asteroid miners. The technology they acquired was instrumental in their revolution and independence from the central Terran government.

'So that's where all that great stuff came from!' "I thought they'd been developing their own technology."

That was their desired impression. But the accidental evacuation of the Dubrian station meant that man was not monitored until recent times and by then it was too late. Drastic action was and is necessary. With the acquisition of Dubrian technical knowledge mankind took a much bigger step forward than it was socially prepared to do.

"So what are we going to do?" Mina asked, shooting a glance at Reed as if to explain the same speech was in her head, too, relayed through IOZ.

Humans have proved much more difficult to handle than anticipated. We are not superbeings and man has become more intelligent faster than the primary surveys indicated

"Man is a clever monkey," Reed said.

"And drastic action is needed," Mina said sadly.

The adaptation of the Dubrian star-drive is almost complete. Four ships have been constructed and provisioned in lunar orbit. In a matter of weeks the drive will be tested and explorers and colonists selected. We must act swiftly.

"But why not just let them go?" Mina asked.

Mankind is not mature. Not yet. We are not trying to stifle man but to help and guide him into the conclave of races. If he goes now into the stars he will be a disruptive force. If sufficient disruption is made the consensus will surely be to force mankind back to a pre-scientific age and to begin all over again. The next time he will be fully and carefully monitored

"Controlled?" asked Reed.

Watched. But we hope for a better solution. To mature man first so that he might not need to suffer the rejection and pain of a realignment. Thus we have conceived the way for man to fit into the Plan for the galaxy.

"But if we're not capable of maturity ... we get blasted back to the caves?" Carraher was both sad and angry.

How do you tell a child that he has not matured sufficiently to handle responsibility? So that he will believe it?

'I see what you mean,' thought Reed, 'though I hate to think of Mankind as some kind of felon or beast.'

We are an ethical race. Our ultimate goal is to secure the cooperation of humans in preparing them for galactic acceptance. But if they achieve a star drive before they are sufficiently mature we would have no choice but to return you to the pre-scientific levels.

"Damn!" snapped Carraher. "I hate being told what to do like this!"

There is little choice.

"Listen," Reed said. "Why don't we go to Earth and broadcast the whole story. We could demonstrate some of the—say, could all thexerons together give all of mankind a Dream, all at once?"

It is possible. We would all need to go there at once. The dream would be adequate but not as vivid as yours. No. The risk is too much. All of us together would be too great a risk if the reaction was violently against us.

"Then our advances in technology have been far greater than our social and humane advances?" Mina asked.

Your technological advance was accidental. It must be corrected before unrestricted star flight would be permitted.

"Between the Devil and the Deep Blue sea ..." muttered Reed.

"And the Conclave at the Nest is to determine policy?"

Affirmative. Why do you not use the blue sphere here to entertain yourselves? It has a different effect than supplying you with Dreams from your own mind. It can blend two minds by electronic telepathy and the effect is unusual.

"What do we do?" Reed asked.

Lie on the couches. Think out to each other. It will happen. You have two hours before arrival.

Mina looked at Reed and a faint flush colored her face. Her expression said Want to? Reed nodded and they lay down on the couches, feeling eager but self-conscious.

"What do we think about?" Reed asked aloud.

There was no answer but the floating globe began to flicker with interior light. It seemed to spin without spinning and Reed's attention was riveted on it.

Not a physical oneness ... but a fitting together ... you are the other half of me ... the words that are not words ... a blending, a sharing, a oneness ...

Moving ... spinning ... bodies and minds and souls merged like gases stars collide ... a recognition of self in the other ... there is "other" and there is "self" . .. doubled and doubled and doubled ... without the zerons ... by themselves ... they were doing it ... their minds kissed, their body-mind floated and fountained and was fiery and cold and flowing and one and two ...

A spinning galaxy ...

A spinning world ...

A spinning globe ...

Awakening ...

Reed turned his head to look at Mina with his new face and with a new mind. She stared at him, wordless, her eyes searching his.

"You could never tell anyone and make them understand," Reed said. "Never."

Now you have had a glimpse of the xeron existence.

"My god," Mina said softly.

We are almost at the Nest.

"Where are we?" Reed asked.

You should not know. What you do not know you cannot reveal, even inad­vertantly. The ship will be encased in the Nest's enclosure. If you attempt to look out your eyesight will be removed temporarily.

"I bet we're in the Jovian system. One of the moons or maybe some chunk of rock floating around. Of course, the Nest could be in the Asteroids. Ceres or Vesta or maybe Pallas. No, they have auto-stations. Eunomia, maybe. Hidalgo .. . Amor .. . hmm ..."

"It doesn't matter, Reed," Mina said. "We shouldn't know."

"It's hard to calculate, this ship moves so differently ... we could be at Pluto, for Christ's sake."

Carraher's face broke into a wide grin. He put a hand on top of her dark head and tilted up her face. They looked at each other for a long moment and the smiles faded and they knew that an important thing had come to pass between them. Reed bent his head and they kissed, long and hard and well.

"That other kiss ..." Mina said, "that was IOZ. This was me. The first time."

We have arrived. We must disembark.

Reed and Mina walked back through the ship to the airlock arm in arm and a foolish grin tugged at the corners of Reed's mouth. When he saw the portly Gianelli and the lean, gray Minden he could not help himself and broke into a delighted laugh.

"We've just had the most extraordinary experience—!"

"Yes, yes," Gianelli said with irritation, "Let us get into the Nest."

Reed grinned at him, feeling smug and benevolent. He helped Mina out of the hatch and through a short translucent duct into another airlock.

They emerged into a corridor, cut in rock and melted smooth. The passage led to a central chamber, where there were low couches.

"Where are the xerons?" Carraher asked.

It is not necessary that we become physically confronted. The nearness of us all is sufficient.

"You guys must be really xxxooogly," Reed laughed. "Think we can't take it?"

Over a hundred people were in the room, patiently waiting. Some were Dreaming. There were no introductions and they arranged themselves at various spots casually. Torbert Minden showed one of the men how to use the liquid dispenser and drinks were handed around. The Dreamers awoke.

`Well?' Reed asked IOK.

The Third Level Comitia has disengaged from the Conclave and is involved in a portion of the Plan.

"Are we the only humans here?" asked one of the men.

"Yes," Minden answered. "There was no time to get others."

"All normal xeron activity has been cancelled," a woman said.

"We are on alert status everywhere," one of the men said.

We begin.

Everyone turned or moved, although there was no focal point. Most just stared at the wall.

Xeron actions have come to the xxxdetention of the Terran governments. They had presumed it was the work of the United Jovian System until the human called Langley was given command of the force opposing us.

Carraher could not identify the thoughts of the xeron speaking to them and presumed it was that of the Fifth Level adept who commanded the xeron force.

Langley is the human genius who achieved the breakthrough in understanding and adapting the Dubrian star-drive to Terran technology.

'But the stardrive's not finished—!'

There are only the final modifications and testing left. Langley saw patterns in our investigations and was intrigued. We fascinate him and unfortunately he is in possession of a few facts that we thought unimportant. He formulated theories and found means to check them and has discovered too much.

Carraher felt a sudden elation. The xerons could be fooled! They could be out-thought! It took a genius but it had been done!

Those of his aides and those in the government who know about us, or about the mystery they attribute to us, are angry and resent our guidance as intrusion. They will be extremely difficult to persuade that the Plan is of the utmost importance.

"How has this affected the Plan?" one of the men asked.

The Plan needs modification and quick execution. The governments of Earth are very disturbed about the sabotaging of their star drive. They believed it was a parochial reaction of the Jovian government, but now that they believe it is the result of extraterrestial power they resent the intrusion even more and think it is an attempt to keep mankind from the stars.

"Is it?" Reed asked and several people looked at him, including Mina.

No. Only to delay. To contain mankind in this system until he is mature enough to accept his galactic responsibilities is our only desire.

"Perhaps you are wrong. Perhaps even the best intentions are wrong." Carraher felt trapped in the role of Devil's Advocate, but his conscience compelled him to ask.

We are not gods, Reed Carraher.

"Less than gods and more than men?" Carraher asked.

Different. Not better. Not worse. Different. Different powers, different goals, different races. But the Plan was not conceived just for this tiny system. It is the Plan for the galaxy, conceived by a conclave of races over twenty million of your years ago, and adhered to ever since. Yours would not be the first race returned to a savage level, nor will it be the last. There have been other races obliterated, races so savage and so immune to sane persuasion that they were imprisoned. eliminated, or radically amended.

"Will that happen here?"

We do not know. We sincerely hope not. Mankind has a vigor and a vitality far above the average. Your quick growth in the sciences attests to that.

"But we're just savages with lasers, cavemen with spaceships?"

To some of the races of the galactic conclave you are just that.

"Suddenly I feel like a traitor to my own race," Reed said and two of the men nodded.

"Don't feel that way, Reed," Mina said, touching his sleeve. "The Plan is a sensible one. The use the xerons makes of us is logical. They need a mobile focusing point, a sensory pickup."

"And someone to stick the drug into another human to eat his mind in a gulp." Reed found himself glaring around at the circle of humans.

"But the person is not destroyed. The information is replaced as fast as it is taken and recorded. You know that." Mina looked up at him with concern.

"And Compton is dead," Reed said bitterly.

The death of the human is regrettable but your guilts are not the concern of this Conclave. Plan modifications must be made and executed. Our use of humans was only logical. We needed to find out the specifics of the Dubrian adaptations. We have decided upon the area of action so that the quickest and best result will come from the least effort.

"What are we to do?" asked Gianelli.

Our agents on Earth and Luna have concentrated upon locating Langley. He is the key. If we can convince him of our intentions much time and a great amount of energy will be saved. As soon as he is located we will focus upon him and the power of the assembled Conclave will overcome his defenses. He will be ours.

"That's not convincing him," Carraher said angrily. "That's rape!"

We have no time for subtle methods.

"Those aren't 'Bad Guys' down there on Earth! They believe sincerely in what they're doing!"

Mina put a cautionary hand on Reed's sleeve.

Kagor of Thembis believed in what he thought was right and destroyed two billion beings. Both sides of the Torrus were 'right' but they destroyed three planets. Blar-kla-mon killed only three hundred beings but he destroyed the future of his race forever. Molanu was `right' and Jillik 1 Borad was 'right' but now two entire star systems are dust. Shall we go on?

"Okay, forget it." Carraher sighed. How can you argue with someone for whom the galaxy and umpteen billions years of history is part of his heritage?

It is known that Langley has attempted in various ways to discover our whereabouts, even though he has no idea who or what we might be. He is unusually intelligent.

"Is he star level?" Mina asked.

Carraher looked curiously at her. 'Evidently,' he thought, 'there are things that she and IOZ discuss that I don't know.'

There was a long pause, almost as if the xerons were either reluctant to answer or still pondering the question. Then the voice in their heads said, Perhaps.

"Well, what do we do?" one of the men asked. "Just sit here until he finds us?"

All of those not here are attempting to locate Langley. Until then there is nothing to do. He could be anywhere. Apparently he keeps his person secretive. There is even evidence that he might be telepathic, for it was only he who found the proper analogues between the Dubrian technology and his own. The Dubrian ships are controlled by telepathic computers and an intelligent telepath might find out more quickly the secrets of an alien system.

"How long do we wait?" another man asked.

We do now know. Rest. When he is found there will be much to do.

Reed turned to Mina and said, "Let's look around."

"Looking for another blue globe?" she asked, a smile spreading across her serious expression. Carraher grinned and took her hand and led her through the milling humans and down a passage.

The Nest seemed to be cut from solid rock, the passages cut and sheared and melted smooth into wide, low corridors and the rooms small but compact. There were many communal sleeping quarters but no single rooms.

"Only a race without sexes would think that was a good idea," Reed said, looking at their second communal sleeping room.

"They seemed to have constructed this place for humans, though," Mina said, looking into another room, apparently a recreational section.

Seven rooms later they found a series of small rooms, each with a floating blue sphere and around it, low and wide, were seven radiating couches, like flower petals.

Reed looked at the couch arrangement and said, "That must be something. Seven minds merging."

"Incredible," Mina whispered. She tugged at Reed's hand and they lay down on couches.

"I'm beginning to think this is better than sex," Reed sighed, wiggling back into comfort.

"You're hooked," Mina said with mock distaste.

"Yup ... on you. And if this isn't the fastest, best way to get to know the inside of your head I'd sure like to know about it."

"How do we start it, anyway," she asked. "Just think it on?"

"Let's try." On. Start. Begin.

The tiny flicks of lightning flashed through the blue globe. The spinning started and the two humans stared in fascination at the alien sphere over their heads.

... faster ...

... faster ... a whirling through void, through a nebulous gas ... then stars were flung into space, flaring balls of fire ... suns were born ...

... there were stars in their heads ... spinning galaxies of stars, moving away, pinwheels of starfire arcing off into void ...

... Reed?

... Mina!

... It's fantastic! I'm—I'm frightened—but it's incredible—!

... It's all of space! It's bigger this time! The Universe!

... Giant gas clouds were shining in the blackness, lit by the burning hearts of a million suns, and they were drifting past, light-years long, with stars bursting and dying within, new stars forming, gleaming ...

... the two of them were swollen beyond galaxies, their minds expanding faster than light ... galaxies were growing smaller ...

... Reed ... Reed, it's too much to hold! It's so beautiful! So vast!

... I love it!

... Reed . . flow into me ... make me part of you ...

... colliding universes ...

... a flowering ...

... spinning ... joining ... flowing

... being ...

... stars were born, grew old and red, and died ...

... galaxies turned, flinging long starry arms out into the void ...

... time stretched and stretched ...meaningless time ...

... Reed! I love you, Reed!

...Bursting ... BURSTING ... BURSTING!

... I love you ...

... you are me ... I am you ...

we are one ...

... it was the beginning of time ... galaxies of bright burning stars exploded out through the dusty nebulae ... catapulted into blackness, populating it with light ...

... Reed!

... Mina!

... two parts of oneness, crying across the infinite void to capture itself ...

... to become ...

... to be ... Reed and Mina ...

... a spinning world ...

... a whirling globe ...

... dying starpoints within the blue xxshere ...

... to lie, gutted and spent and weak, shorn of ego and identity and memory ...

... to swim back ...

... to return ...

... to be Reed ...

... to be Mina ...

... to be separate, yet forever one ...

... to be Reed and Mina lying on couches in an alien Nest ...

Along silence. A soft silence, broken only by breathing. A long sigh. "Ohh, Reed ..." Mina's hand fluttered weakly.

"If ... if this is an example of how it is in the stars ...then I'm for doing anything I can to help ... it's ... fantastic."

"But it's you and I, Reed. We did it, the sphere only focused us."

"Then Man better get out into the stars! But not if going to soon and too unprepared will screw it up. We can't lose the chance! It's too important."

"Reed ..." Mina put out her hand and Carraher took it.

"Honey, if that's what we can do on our second trip out I'm not so sure we'll come back next time. That's potent stuff."

"I won't worry if you are along ...and I'm not going unless you are," Mina said, slipping from the couch to lie next to Reed, who embraced her.

"Don't worry, baby, I—"

We are under attack! The Nest is in danger!

Reed Carraher jumped to his feet and pulled Mina with him. "Where? What's happening? What do we do?"

Six ships of the United Earth fleet are approaching from Callisto.

"Then we are in the Jovian system!" Reed cried.

They fired four atomic missiles but we activated the defenses of the four ships and the Nest. Two more ships have joined the fleet from Callisto. They are coming around Jupiter now.

"How do they know where we are?" Reed demanded as they raced along the corridor. Other humans were running for the airlocks and the ships.

No time for that. The Conclave states that the oncoming ships will be too much for the defenses to handle. We must outrun them.

Suddenly the-. running humans all stopped and changed direction. Reed and Mina felt compelled to follow. They ran down another corridor and straight at a blank smooth rock wall.

The rock split and swung back and the humans raced through without stopping. Inside was a large room carved from rock. The air was thin and strangely scented and the light was dim and red. Around the walls were bins filled with strange rotting fruit the size of watermelons. Reed leaped for one particular bin and even as his body reacted, swiftly but gently scooping up the great tan and black fruit, he realized what they were.

The Xerons!

Reed spun and started running for the entrance, seeing that each of the humans scooped up one of the xerons and was racing back. They were heavy, a full armload to carry gently, and had a fragile, feel to them.

Reed saw Mina cuddling a tan and black melon to her breast as she dodged past older and slower humans to race out with her precious cargo. They sprinted down the corridor and back towards the airlocks.

'How did they know?' Reed thought furiously.

They transmitted to a passive signaling device concealed in the xxccorns of three of the humans. The tuned circuit returned a signal they could trace.

"Who were the traitors?" Reed snarled.

Mina was one.

Ahead, Reed saw Mina falter and throw him a frightened, bewildered look over her shoulder. She struck the wall with her shoulder, staggered and ran.

"How?" 'Why?'

Unknown. Unknown. We are penetrating deeply into the minds of—answer found. Langley. He is of star level after all. He put together several counterforces on several levels and in different areas—faster than we conceived a human could correlate the sparse facts he had.

Reed jumped through the hatch into the Dubrian ship along with several others. They deposited the xerons on couches and started back for the rest.

Stop. There is no time. The rest know their fate.

"But we can still save some!" a man shouted.

No time. Activate ship.

The hatches closed and there was a faint whirring.

We are in space. The Terran fleet is still out of laser range and the atomic missiles are being deflected by Nest's defenses. When the ships are closer they will be able to reinforce the energy and overcome the deflectors.

"Where are we going?" Reed asked.

Earth. We will outrun the fleet and appear to be heading out of the plane of the ecliptic. With stardrive we will go far out and around and approach Earth from the other side.

"Why Earth? Oh ... Langley's there?"

Affirmative. He is our only hope. If he is truly of star level he will understand. He must understand.

Suddenly Reed remembered what the xeron had said earlier. "But you said Mina was one of the traitors! I can't believe that!"

Mina looked white.

She was the unwitting pawn of Langley. One of the counterforces he erected was a group of agents who had been implanted with passive devices in corns and old scars and other insensitive areas. Xerons find it distasteful to enter any more of the host's body than is absolutely necessary, thus the devices concealed in areas serviced with little or no blood escaped undetected.

"But you must have detected something!" Reed was aghast.

Mina Wallace was known to be on Mars and when our ship left and Point Four detonated behind us they activated the frequency her device was on. It was a tuned circuit and retransmitted the signal. Apparently the first signal accidentally came during your first use of the mind focuser.

"And the computers gave them the orbit to the Nest," Reed said wearily.

Mina cleared her throat and said, "Reed, I didn't know."

"I know, baby."

"Those poor xerons."

Do not feel guilt. There were two others. You were unknowing. We compute that bringing so many humans to one spot to allow for a strong focusing caused a focal point in the tracing of their agents.

"But why me?" Mina asked.

Langley perceived a pattern. We were investigating in one main area, that of how advanced man's adaptation of the Dubrian stardrive might be. Langley seeded the most likely areas with implanted agents. Our selection of those we work through is partially dictated by their ability to move in the area we are investigating. Mina Wallace was unknowingly recruited just before graduation.

"My degree is in physics, and my specialty is cybernerttics: I was hoping to get a berth on the starships when they went," Mina said. "I really wanted that. I thought I had a damn good chance to get it, too, because I was doing some good work for the Lockheed Spaceframe Division, which built the starships. Damn!"

Reed took her in his arms, and patted her back. "Don't feel too bad. If this guy Langley can outsmart the xerons then he can outfox you and me, honey."

"I feel like such a bloody fool!" she grumbled into his chest. "It's my fault all those other xerons are dead. Or going to be dead."

Dead. One megaton missile broke through the overloaded deflectors two and one half minutes ago.

"I'm sorry ..."

"Sorry ..."

"Did the other ships escape?" Reed asked.

Two did. Two did not. There were too many attackers. One ship headed into the attackers to draw fire. The other was too close to the missile when it destroyed the Nest.

"Oh, god ..." Mina said softly.

"Why did they just attack like that?" Reed asked angrily. "Why didn't they talk to us first?"

Fear. They were afraid of our powers for we were an unknown quantity to them. We were alien invaders that suck minds dry and control humans with mental force.

'Well, they're right,' Reed thought, `xcxbut not the way they think.'

Rest. I will awaken you.

Humans were bedding down on the deck everywhere and Reed and Mina picked a way thro:ugh them towards a free space. They glanced into the room where all the xerons had been placed.

Tan and black melons from the stars. 'I feel as if I should be repelled, but I'm not,' thought Reed. 'They're ... different, that's all. Well meaning friends or well meaning enemies—who knows? The scope upon which they think and plan and act is too big for me to understand. Plans twenty billion years long. Galaxy wide. Umpteen races. Faster-than-light ships. Stars like diamond dust.'

Reed settled down against a smooth wall and cuddled Mina to him, feeling her warmth and friendly presence.

"Mina ... dear Mina ... the other part of me ..." 'The whole thing is incredible. Me, a mind-sucking secret agent helping to decide the fate of Man.. I get into it because that smooth-talking dude at Ares Center got into my head. I get a "trial run" and like it. The Dreams are worth it all. Or so I thought. But now ... now I'm not so sure. Mina is worth it. So I'm in. To the end. And maybe out the other side, greedy guts. Reach for a Dream bigger and better and wilder than any psychedelic and find something greater than you suspected possible.'

... the stars ...

... life in the great black void of space ...

... sleep ...

REED CARRAHER STOOD in the bubble of the ship's control room and looked out at space and the growing blue-green ball of Earth.

'I never get tired of seeing it,' he thought, 'ever since that first look when I was a kid, looking out of the port of that old Galileo class tub when my father took me to the moon. Blue with swirls and feathers of white; green and tan laced over with clouds. The home world.

'Man's world. No matter how many planets, how many moons or orbiting rocks he makes a home on, Terra will always be home. Even if we go to the stars, it will always be home world, the poor gutted, over-populated son of a bitch.'

We must land and get to Langley as swiftly as possible. There will be no second chance. The last ship sacrificed itself so that we might escape.

Carraher shivered. It was becoming altogether too serious. He'd signed up with the xerons because it was a challenge, a lark, a real adventure with the promise of a treasure at the end. A life of riches and ease, for after all, what good was money to a xeron, except as a tool in dealing with a human?

"Where do we land?" Where's Langley?

Sahara Base. We will dive straight down and land atop the building where he is most likely to be. The ship will immobilize everyone within several hundred yards. But we only have so long before they counterattack and the ship's sensors will be overloaded.

Commandos, thought Carraher, just like ancient commandos. Or suicide troops.

He watched the Earth grow and they were angling straight down out of space towards the tanned top of the African continent with its miles and miles of concrete pads and maintenance buildings and passenger terminals and atmospheric transport facilities.

Carraher began to see ships rising up from the pads and they passed one fairly closely, a sleek new Gorgon class streaming fire. They overtook and passed a bulky ore transporter coming in on auto from the moon mines.

The horizon changed from a ball to a curve to nothing but the brown stretch of Sahara Base and still they shot down at fantastic speed.

"I hope you guys know what you are doing," muttered Reed.

We will brake at the appropriate time. It is one of the advantages of antigravity units. You should go to the airlock now and prepare to disembark.

Reed found Mina buckling on a laser and he picked up a heavy duty Colt Magnum and strapped the laser on.

"I hope we don't have to use these," he said. Mina nodded, checking the charge indicator.

The humans crowded into the passage, filling the airlock. They overrode the automatics and set up both hatches to open at once so that all the humans could stream out onto the roof as quickly as possible.

We are landing on the building assigned to the counterforce.

Reed loosened the laser in its holster and shot a glance at Mina. She looked up at him and a faint smile came and went before she sobered and looked back at the gray metal lock door.

Plow.xxx

A slight tremor and then the outer hatch swung wide. The humans jumped out and started for the several entrances down into the building from the helipad. Reed noticed scattered figures frozen in attitudes of flight or startlement.

The ship is holding them to free us for the final battle.

Carraher felt himself directed towards the furthest entrance and he ran across the rooftop with Mina close behind. Down the stairs ... top floor ... more stairs ... next floor ... frozen humans staring from their immobilized bodies ...

Here. Turn here. That corridor. That door.

Carraher and Mina were joined by several humans converging on the same spot. Reed was just behind two others as they rushed through an outer office, then an inner lab of some sort, then into another office and stopped before a final door.

Six of them pushed through it and crowded into the room, lasers ready, and Carraher noticed that Torbert Minden was one of them. A man sat frozen at a desk, quietly sitting as if listening.

A trick. A holograph.

Panels snapped open and big brute lasers were aiming at them, manned by automatics, controlled from where—? Carraher spun and there were more lasers, big monster ten millimeter GEs that could cut a ship in two.

He was taking no chances, Reed thought. But they weren't firing ...

"Hello, there," a voice said conversationally and the trapped humans looked at the figure of the man in the chair. He gestured with his hand. "You all look very human. Are you, or do aliens control you?"

No one answered and the holographic projection continued blandly."I am some distance from you, shielded and protected. Everything there is controlled by my aides or myself from outside your sphere of control. I can see now that I overestimated your area of immobilization, but no matter.

A man turned towards the door despite the lasers but froze even before Langley spoke. The man turned back slowly and assumed a placid expression.

"Ah ..." Langley sighed softly, "So you are controlled. Whoever or what­ever rides your brains knows that my autolasers have stopped everyone on the roof." He laughed softly. "Quite an impasse, no? Here we are, meeting creatures from the stars for the first time and I do not have some sand to draw a solar system in."

Mina spoke, her voice sudden and startling in the silence. "We are not themonsters you think we are. Yes, what you see are human beings, but we are with members of a race from a system of planets near what we call the Horsehead Nebula. They are the xerons and are a peaceful and philosophical race."

"That seeks to control the Earth or at least bottle up man and keep him from the stars," sneered Langley.

"That's not true," Mina answered. "The xerons want only to help us mature enough to be accepted by the various races and cultures."

Langley looked at her a moment, then scanned the others. "A very convincing speech, my dear, especially coming from the mouth of a double traitor!"

"I am not a traitor! You made me a spy and I didn't even know it! And I am not a traitor to the human race! I'm trying to help it, just as I would help a child that's about to run off a cliff!"

"You are all renegades!" Langley's eyes flared. "You have conspired to keep man from the stars!"

"The star drive was Dubrian. You merely adapted it," Reed said.

Langley's gaze swung to him. "A murderer speaks ..."

"You will be the greatest murderer of all earth's history if you let man go out now," Mina said. "Man will be smashed back to savagery and on the way back up he will be monitored all the way. A much different sort of Man will emerge."

Langley looked at them again, his dark eyes moving from face to face.

He must be looking at a bank of screens, Reed thought. Where is he hiding?

Five hundred ten meters to the South Southwest. Concrete bunker underground.

Why didn't you know that before?

We did.

"What?" 'Why did you let us be trapped like this?'

To talk. Attacking the bunker would have been suicide.

Langley spoke, slowly and with deadly earnestness. "I want to go to the stars now. I don't want to wait until Man is 'mature.' That may never happen and certainly not in my lifetime. All my life I have been surrounded by fools and morons; I expect always to be wading through idiots. I'll not let their stupidity keep me from the stars. I can go to the stars now; I will go now!"

It was a whole new "voice" in his head and Carraher recognized it as IOZ ... but a new IOZ. Stronger, bigger, more ... powerful, as if she had been holding back, hiding ... as if it had been masquerading.

Reed stared at Mina, who was looking with a startled expression at the image of Langley.

Reach out—quickly!

Carraher felt the funneling effect as the power of IOK's mind swept through him. The lights in the room dimmed and brightened, dimmed and went out as energy of every sort flowed towards Langley.

There were swirling lights in his mind and soundless winds ... all following IOZ ... the new IOZ ... there was a mindless moaning.

She is Sixth Level.

There was amazement in IOK's thoughts, though the thought/image/ words/emotions were still calm.

She was hiding even from us. The Plan has many levels ...

The room of humans stood motionless in the darkness as the storm raged through their minds. There seemed to be no walls, no citadels, only void and space and blackness and the silent storm.

None of them had even been part of an attacking Conclave before and briefly Reed wondered if they would all return sane. Or alive.

IOZ.

"IOZ!"

IOZ!

The funneling into blackness, into void, into Langley ... the focusing ...racing along wires ... crackling through circuits ... searching ... a million mice racing for a black moon ... blanking, blocking ... shielding ...

A tightbeam of mental force smashed into the bunker, into the human called Langley ... a granite boulder washed by a raging sea ...

The boulder moved and shuddered, then struck back, a weak and unfocused blow, but they sensed the power behind the untrained weapon. The sea struck again and again, crashing endlessly down on the granite surface ...

The boulder cracked and cracked and cracked under the storm pressure ... then the bursting ... and the sea washed over it ... a fierce tight whorl of force drew to it all the power, all the photons and psychic energy ... blackness ... and in the blackness a voice ...

YOU ARE IN OUR POWER.

Yes.

'Beaten but not owned ...'

Langley's thoughts came through to Carraher like weak shouts in the wind, but they were defiant thoughts and Carraher admired him.

'Go to hell ... kill me ... but Man will go to the stars ...'

You are powerless.

'Yes ... for now ...'

Suddenly there was a lifting, at Langley's admission of helplessness ... light returned ... the pressure was gone ...

Reed felt helpless, completely open and defenseless. He could not move.

He sensed an outpouring of information into Langley's mind, flowing through him, through them all, into one human mind ... stars and maturity ... life and death ... savages in the outworlds ... vandals in the clean palaces of the starworlds ... corruption ... disease ... responsibility ... maturity ... decision ...

Then a pulling back, a releasing, and Langley was free. Only a line of thought tied him to them all..

We are open to you. You know the situation. It is your decision. You decide for mankind. What you decide mankind will follow. We are helpless. We make no pressure upon you, overt or covert. Now ... you decide.

Langley's voice came to them. "But I want the stars!" His voice was weak, both in power and determination. It was almost a cry for help.

There was a long pause and Reed heard only the winds of time, then IOZ spoke again.

It is possible that mankind might mature faster than expected. This race has done everything else faster than anticipated.

"Yes ..." Langley's voice bore the weight of a heavy responsibility. "Yes ... I cannot bring the death of my culture ... you are right. I will help. But I'm not going to like it one bit! I want—god-dammit—to go to the stars!"

IOZ spoke kindly.

You are the first of the New humans. The first human of star level. That is a greater thing than being a freebooter among the outworlds.

"I didn't want to take. I wanted to learn." Langley's voice was sad but hopeful. "Maybe we have something to teach, too."

You do. Many things. We will all learn.

Langley stood in the Dubrian ship next to a low couch. "Lie down," Carraher said. The slender, dark-haired man lay on the couch and watched Reed and Mina lie down on other of the "petals."

"What do we do now?" Langley asked.

"Let it happen," Mina said.

"Will I0Z be going with us?" the scientist asked.

Yes. In all three of your minds.

"To the stars," breathed Langley softly.

"In a way," Reed said. "You'll see things but you won't be there. But you'll be there in a way you could never be. Then you can truly tell mankind about it all."

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